


such fragile lives

by thatworldinverted



Series: games you don't wanna play [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bloodplay, Daddy Kink, M/M, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he rolls into a pack meeting a step behind Peter, smothered in the acrid scent of wolf and come, <i>everything</i> stops. </p>
<p>Derek, though.</p>
<p>Derek just shrugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	such fragile lives

The first time he rolls into a pack meeting a step behind Peter, smothered in the acrid scent of wolf and come, _everything_ stops.

Scott’s face goes pale, claws digging a furrow into the table.

Isaac looks from him to Derek, him to Derek, eyes moving in scared little rabbit twitches.

Derek, though.

Derek just looks at him and _shrugs_. Turns around and goes right back to what he was doing.

Fine.

It’s _fine_.

They fuck in the parking lot after, steaming up the windows of Peter’s car like a cheap porno. He pleads for it, loud and louder, begs Peter to take him, fill him up.

Hurt him.

Bleed him.

And Peter gives it to him. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t reassure, doesn’t bother with any of that safeword shit.

Has him sobbing for breath as Peter traces bloody tracks up his ribs and laps them up, worries his teeth in and _pulls_.

No one asks why he spends the next three days limping.

He doesn’t care, is the thing. Why should he? No one’s getting hurt.

Permanently.

He still goes to school, goes to practice, cooks dinner for his dad. Good student, good friend, good son. That’s him.

Ms. Blake pulls him aside; his latest essay was insightful, she says, but he’s so disengaged during class. Is there anything she can do to help?

He laughs and laughs. Can’t make himself stop.

Peter takes him to _Jungle_ that night, buys him drinks and lets him play the twink. Snug shirt and tight, tight jeans, so tight that everyone knows what he’s not wearing underneath.

The words curl off his tongue. Take me home and fuck me, _daddy_.

Please, daddy.

I’ll be such a good boy.

Wolf-bright eyes flash, white teeth snap.

He tugs open his jeans in the car, strokes himself until claws prick at his thigh.

Come on, daddy, harder.

More.

Pretty please.

Peter’s bed is covered in red silk sheets, a terrible, terrible cliche that he disregards as he clambers on top of them. He doesn’t give a fuck; Peter can’t resist the way they match the marks he leaves behind.

Rope tangles up his arms, binds his wrists, holds his ankles splayed wide. He craves the way it chafes, rubbing him raw as Peter drops poison in his ear. Filthy boy, he croons, such a dirty, sopping, empty hole. So good for me, so willing, such a little slut. Give it up for me, come on.

Don’t you wish Derek could see you like this?

It burns, slashing through him like quicksilver and wolfsbane. Derek’s bulk, pinning him down. Big hands, fingers longer than Peter’s, palms wider than Isaac’s, bruise-tight on his hips. Sweat and blood and jizz, an obscene mess slicked over tan skin.

It’s not what makes him come. It’s _not_.

He’s been wondering which one of his friends would eventually corner him. Turns out it’s Lydia; not all that surprising, considering. Scott hovers in the background, and werewolf or no, his scowly face needs work, ‘cause at the moment it’s more like a disgruntled puppy.

Lydia pushes up his sleeve, examining the damage with pursed lips. Purple-blue rings at his wrists, smudging up his arms, punctuated by angry welts that are just starting to scab.

It looks worse than it is.

The two of them, him and Lydia, they stopped pulling their punches with each other a while ago. He’s already expecting the things she says.

This isn’t good for you. You’re hurting yourself. It needs to stop. We’re worried about you. Peter’s a psychopath, remember? God only knows what he has planned.

Don’t you _get it_ , he wants to scream. That’s the _idea_.

She spots his reaction, even though he keeps the thought tucked behind his lips.

Cocks her head to the side, everything about her so, so sharp. Part of him wishes he was still in love with her.

Derek isn’t worth this, you know.

Oh, fuck this noise. It’s not _about_ Derek. It’s about getting what _he_ wants, for a change.

He grabs his backpack and goes. Scott calls his name, once, but he already learned his lesson about looking back. And fuck them, anyway. He knows what he’s doing.

Isaac’s waiting in the Jeep by the time he gets to the parking lot. Long, long nails trail over already abused flesh, and the sting makes him gasp.

I didn’t know you liked it like that, Isaac says, wolf hidden behind a sweet angel face. I missed you.

One hand slides inside Isaac’s shirt while he texts frantically with the other.

Bringing home a playmate.

Peter’s only response is a winky face, which, god. Could the dude _be_ any more of a creeper?

Not that he’s going to let it stop him, because this- this has potential.

Later, all he can remember is flashes, the whole night dissolved into a dizzy mind-fuck of a blur:

Isaac’s curls, drenched and dripping, twisted between his fingers.

The greedy, nasty look on Peter’s face.

Kissing Isaac across Peter’s cock, tongues working over heavy flesh as they sucked and laved and tangled with each other.

The overwhelming, thick taste in his mouth, sweat and bitter pre-come and tears, forced out from behind his eyelids as he takes it, and takes it, and takes it.

The wrecked sound of his own voice as he _keens_ , stretched past what he’d thought possible, Peter and Isaac shoving inside him. They snarl and snap, jockeying for dominance as he begs. Begs to come. For it to be over. For it to never, ever stop.

He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, anymore.

And he remembers the blood.

Sharp canines, skating down his sides. Blunt, human teeth, buried in his shoulder. His own jaw, clamped around a wrist. Claws digging parallel lines into the small of his back as he arches into the electric sear of it.

Blood in drips and drabs and thin sheets, painting mouths red and turning everything to iron.

The moment he finally collapses on the bed, reeling, deep, deep into some other headspace, is, of course, the moment when his phone pings. And then rings. And rings.

And then Isaac’s phone, and Peter’s, both at once, which can really only mean one thing.

Besides the fact that the Alpha pack is a bunch of fucking fuckers with the worst sense of timing, obviously.

Peter and Isaac have to carry him to the car.

The haze has cleared by the time they meet up with the rest of the pack, but nothing can cover-up the fact that he’s been absolutely _demolished_.

Allison gasps when she sees him, which is more than a bit hypocritical; he knows little hunter girl’s got kinks.

Scott only told him about them twenty or thirty times.

Whatever. The weakness in his knees doesn’t stop him from standing side-by-side with Lydia, ancient Latin fitting into his mouth like it belongs there.

It doesn’t stop him from taking a bat to the back of Kali’s skull when she goes for them, either.

They destroy the Alphas, not a member of the their twisted group left standing, not prepared for the magic that bolsters his own pack, twines around them and buoys them up.

When it’s done they come together, shoulders heaving, blood running from tooth and claw, breathing in the scent of pack and death and victory.

He only realizes that something’s wrong when he takes a long, slow blink and finds himself staring up at the ceiling.

It takes a minute for sound to filter in, and when it does he hears Scott’s furious shouts, shot through with Peter’s dry, supercilious retorts. Someone slams into a wall, and there’s a sharp creak as Allison’s bow draws back.

The Alpha’s roar cuts above it all, cows them into silence.

They scatter, crawling into bed to lick their wounds.

He’s swamped with exhaustion, could sleep for a million hours, but his body is buzzing, strung tight with the aftermath of adrenaline, fucking and fighting and he’s clawing towards sleep when sunlight creeps in his window and brings Derek with it.

Fuck. No.

His dad had an early shift, is already out of the house, so he has no qualms about telling Derek, _loudly_ , how disinterested he is in anything that Derek might have to say. GTFO, dude.

And then the room’s spinning as he flails and squawks, pinned to the wall, Derek’s- _fuck_ \- Derek’s fingers tight at his throat.

In nothing but boxers, nearly every inch of pale, marred skin is on display, and he _knows_ he sees Derek’s eyes tracking each and every vivid mark.

He sees the moment those eyes realize what they’re doing, too.

It makes the next words out of Derek’s mouth all the more vicious.

Words like _irresponsible_.

Reckless.

Useless.

Spreading his legs like a _whore_ to cause problems in _Derek’s pack_ -

His fist smashes into Derek’s face without conscious thought. It’s probably more satisfying to punch someone who isn’t built like a brick wall, and a werewolf to boot. Derek doesn’t so much as rock back on his heels, just licks the blood off his teeth as his split lip heals.

The silence is charged, sparking between them. He has time for one indrawn breath before they’re kissing, clawing at each other, mouths mauling tender flesh.

He can’t help it; his spine _melts_ as those fucking hands slide down to cup his ass, yanking him into the swell of Derek’s cock. He pours everything into the kiss- every butter-soft moment of affection, the sweet realization of what was building between them, every goddamn razor-sharp, brittle moment of the last few months.

Then he takes the knee that Derek’s riding and he jams it as hard as he can into Derek’s motherfucking balls.

Turns out even a werewolf can’t ignore a hit straight to the junk.

He snatches up his keys and leaves without a word, the sweet sound of Derek’s wheezy gasps following him out the door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd just like to point out that not using a safeword in these sorts of situations is NOT endorsed by the management. Play safe, kiddos.
> 
> Secondly, as always, love and confetti to my darling beta [1lostone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1lostone/pseuds/1lostone), and to my perfectly perfect cheerleader [casualpahoehoe](http://casualpahoehoe.tumblr.com).
> 
> Titles from "Dirty Little Secret," by the All-American Rejects.


End file.
